Just in Time
by MorbidbyDefault
Summary: Sherlock has really done it this time,and poor Molly considers her options:Staying and putting up with a man who will never treat her any differently,or leaving with a man who's life is filled with even more danger than the Consulting Detective's. Meanwhile,Sherlock wakes up to find that he is in some serious hot water with...himself. Crossover: Wholocklock. Eventual Sherlolly!
1. Chapter 1

So this is a prompt from the ever-lovely SammyKatz. She asked for this awhile back, and I'm just now finding the time to dedicate to it's awesomeness. Anyway, I hope she enjoys this, as is the case with all of you. :)

**I do not own anything! All characters and are owned by the BBC/creators of mentioned characters. **

Enjoy!

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"What?" his curt voice broke out, almost with a harsh irritability behind it.

"I said, maybe it wasn't the husband. I mean, he seemed genuinely distraught when he came in to identify her body. He couldn't even manage to give me an absolute 'yes' for five minutes." she shrugged her shoulders, looking up at him from her side of the shared work station.

"People are inherently good liars." Sherlock responded. She sighed, before standing and walking around to be beside him.

"Look at the evidence, Sherlock. The husband has rheumatoid arthritis in both hands. He can't possibly have held the knife firmly enough to stab his wife twenty times. It had to be someone else." Molly ended her own list of reasons why she felt Mr. Suthers was innocent. They had been arguing the points for the past thirty minutes, before Molly was finally able to make a point valid enough, forcing Sherlock to do the impossible, admit he was wrong. Of course, backing the detective into such a defensive corner only seemed likely, and Molly soon found herself at the end of a barrage of disdainful and cruel deductions from his lips.

"And tell me, Molly, do your insurmountable observational skills and knowledge also allow you to see the fact that the husband was also cheating on his wife? Or the fact that he was stealing money from her trust fund to pay for his secret alcohol addiction? While he may not have killed her himself, the motive speaks volumes higher as to the likelihood that he hired someone to do the dirty work for him. Obviously, you have figured these variables into your reasoning why Mr. Suthers is innocent. You must have, or you wouldn't have bothered to argue the point in the first place. No? Honestly, why don't you go back to your little corner in the lab and let me work in peace? We both know it's the smarter option, and you so _desperately_ want to be smart, don't you? So just shut up, and go away." Sherlock had finished his tirade, immediately regretting the last of his bitter words. He'd expected her to rush out in tears, or at least slap him across his cheek. However, he did not expect her to do as he commanded. Silently, Molly made her way to the door, and pushed it open. He looked up when he saw her hesitate, before mumbling something, and finally stepping through the swinging door. She'd not intended for him to hear her, he was sure, but he had anyway.

"Okay. If that's what you want. Maybe it is time to leave." Sherlock didn't quite understand the meaning behind her heavily burdened reply, but he would come to learn soon enough.

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No sooner had he stepped through the door to 221B, and he was already being scolded by his very cross flatmate.

"You git! You've really done it now. I just got off the phone with Mary, who said she ran into Molly at Bart's. She was crying her eyes out, apparently something about you calling her stupid and telling her to bugger off. Why do you have to be so terrible to her? All because she tries to help, and she figured out a _tiny_ detail to a case that's been bugging you for weeks now." John yelled at the quiet man currently reclined on the sofa. When Sherlock gave no reply, John tossed his arms up in defeat, before stalking to the door.

"Fine. Fine, you be a git if you want. Just don't be surprised when that girl is gone from your life, because you'll be the one who drove her away. I'm meeting up with Mary to see if we can mend some of the damage you've done this time." The army doctor grabbed his coat, before barreling down the staircase and out the front door. Sherlock sighed out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, before he closed his eyes and entered his mind palace for some much needed organized thinking.

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"I'm sure he didn't mean it like that. You know how he gets." Mary said, trying to soothe her friend. Molly sniffled, before sighing out and shaking her head.

"He doesn't 'get' that way. He's always like that, and that won't ever change. In all the potential universes, I'd bet he's the only Sherlock Holmes who treats his pathologist this badly." Molly bit down on her lip a bit, before she stood and paced in front of her sofa. Mary looked on, her concern growing for the distressed woman.

"You've been watching too many of those sci-fi shows again. Come on, I know he's a git, but you know he doesn't mean any of what he says." This seemed to stop the pathologist in her tracks, before she collapsed onto the floor. Her muffled words were missed by the blond nurse, who was now leaning over in her seat to hear her better.

"What?"

"I said, then why does he say the things he says? All the time. After...even after everything, and I still obviously mean nothing to him." Molly's soft and desperate tone wavered with her second bout of tears. Mary frowned deeply, before she rushed to Molly's side and pulled her into a hug. With a free hand, she pulled out her phone, sending a text to John to warn him not to come.

_'Why not? - JW' _Came the response. Mary's frown grew to a scowl of contempt as she sent another message.

_'You're going back home and knocking some sense into that arsehole. She thinks she's nothing to him. -Mary'_

John read over the text a few times. Partly to comprehend what it actually said, but mostly to build up the reserve of absolute rage to unleash on his moronic best friend.

"I'm sorry. Could you turn around and take me back? There's been a change of plans." John asked the cabbie, before he sat back in his seat. He decided to send off two separate messages. The first, to his girlfriend.

_'Tell Molly I'm fixing it. Remind her that she counts. I'll see you tonight. - JW'_

The second was sent as a warning, a command, to the git himself.

_'Stay where you are. We need to have a talk. Don't you dare run away from this, either. - JW'_

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Sherlock walked out of the corridor of his mind palace to emerge back into reality. However, upon opening his eyes, he realized something was definitely wrong with his surroundings. It looked similar to his own living room of the flat. It was even cluttered to the extent that his was, complete with a skull on the mantle, and a jack knife holding his post in place. The one thing that was unusual – utterly odd being the grandest of understatements, was the curly haired man squatting directly in front of him, light blue eyes meeting his own.

"Ah, you're finally awake. Wonderful. We can begin. Tea?" He spoke, his voice a regal tone, mixed with the slightest hint of sarcastic indifference. Sherlock looked around the room, his eyes resting on the silver tray on the floor. The small ceramic pot let out a slow stream of evaporation from its spout. The matching cups sat on either side, leaving just enough space for a small sugar bowl to sit on the last free space of the tray. Sherlock returned his gaze to the wild haired man, who was awaiting his answer.

"Um, yes. Thank you." he said in a tired voice. The other man nodded his head, before turning and filling the cups carefully.

"You obviously have questions." he said as he brought one of the cups around to offer to Sherlock.

"Yes. First of all, where am I? The walls seem to be the same dimensions as my own flat, but the paper is different, as are the shelves and the mason work around the fireplace. What is the address of this place?" Sherlock asked as he sat up, taking a sip of the tea. The man across from his smiled knowingly, before quirking a brow.

"You already know the answer to that. Better still, you know who lives here, and by extension, who I am. So...?" he motioned for Sherlock to state his deductions, or rather, his theories. After another brief glance around the room, Sherlock slowly began.

"This is still 221B, though it is somehow different, reflecting an older time. Based on the setting, I would say that it's still my flat. My violin is by the window, along with my skull placed on the mantle. But my coat and scarf are gone. What have you done with them?" his fingers pointed out each item, as he declared their locations. However, as he noticed his own coat and scarf missing, the detective took note of another coat in its place. This one, while still a charcoal color, was much shorter. Beside it hung another coat, this one even shorter, a black leather material that hardly fit the assumed aging of the rest of the items around him. Sherlock looked around, searching for his own Bel Staff. He returned his gaze to the other man, who was scratching at the stubble on his chin.

"Oh, come now, you know where the clues lead." he said with a sigh. Sherlock's mind was churning, yet refusing to believe the conclusion it kept arriving at.

"But...that's impossible." Sherlock whispered.

"Once you eliminate the impossible, no matter how improbable..." the scruffed man spoke.

"...Must be true." Sherlock finished with him, his eyes growing wide as he looked up at him.

"You're..." he managed to gasp out.

"Yes, I'm Sherlock Holmes, as are you." the man said with a grin. Sherlock's gaze widened further, and he set his teacup down with a shaking hand. Holmes stood, his hand reaching to the small table behind him and grabbing a leather switch. A riding crop. As he stood, he slowly took to pacing, only occasionally looking Sherlock's way.

"As I said before, you obviously have questions. However, I feel I cannot explain accurately the circumstances and reasons why you are here. Let me go and fetch the Doctor." Holmes held up a hand, signifying that he'd only be a moment. So, as he quickly left the room, Sherlock waited.

_'How could John be better at explaining this than...myself?'_ he wondered to himself. He heard the sound of his counterpart returning, and a second set of footsteps following behind. Sherlock's sights set to the doorway, his mind anticipating what this John Watson might look like. He had imagined someone with similar attire to the Holmes character. So, it came as a great shock to him when he found himself gazing at a tall, lithe man with hardly any hair atop his head, a slightly larger nose, and unusually large ears. This man was _definitely_ out of place, just as he was. As if knowing Sherlock's oncoming question, the man spoke.

"Hello Sherlock. I'm the Doctor." The flashing smile he gave was met with an unsure arched brow.

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Well there you have it. Chapter one is done! Finally! Lol. Anyway, I hope you will all enjoy this story as it continues, and please feel free to leave feedback/reviews/favorites/follows...because I very much enjoy hearing from you all. :D Thank you so much, and to my dear SammyKatz...HAPPY BIRTHDAY! Hope you like this story, considering it's for you. ;) Alright, laters!


	2. Chapter 2

YAY! So, I'm so glad that this has received such a good response for just having one chapter out. I shall try my hardest to answer your questions...in due time of course, and I hope you will all stick around for the whole thing. :) Again, just a huge thanks to everyone supporting me in your ways, it makes me so very happy. Special thanks to SammyKatz for this lovely prompt. I hope I'm doing your idea justice. :)

Right, I do not own anything from the BBC, Sherlock, Doctor Who, or otherwise. Sadly.

Onto Chapter Two!

Enjoy!

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"You? You're the John Watson of this...world? You hardly fit with the rest of the surroundings of this flat, let alone your...friend, here." Sherlock gestured a hand to the other him, his gaze not shifting from this out of place Watson. Said man chuckled a bit, before shaking his head.

"No, you misunderstand. I'm not Doctor Watson. I'm _The_ Doctor. Just The Doctor," he replied cheerfully.

"_The _Doctor...? Doctor of 'what', exactly?" Sherlock asked skeptically. He watched as the two men exchanged an amused look.

"I told you he'd react this way. It's best to just say it, and let him sort out the details for himself. Then we can proceed with the more pressing matters at hand," Holmes stated, his eyes moving from the Doctor back to Sherlock.

"Alright then. Sherlock, my name is The Doctor. I'm a Time Lord. You're currently at 221B Baker Street in London...in 1895. It's very important that you speak with, well...you, about the important matter of your friend, Molly Hooper." The Doctor pointed to Holmes, who briefly nodded, before he went back to flexing the leather crop in his hands. Sherlock's eyes widened a bit.

"Molly? What does any of this have to do with Molly?" Sherlock tried not to sound too shocked at the mention of her name. He also tried to ignore the guilty feeling that was quickly settling in his stomach.

"Oh, it has everything to do with her, Sherlock," The Doctor responded. Sherlock opened his mouth, fully prepared to demand an explanation, when the doorway was filled with yet another person's form.

This man was slender, fit with a clean-pressed suit. His face was clean shaven, apart from the well groomed moustache above his lips. The blond hair on his head was combed in a pristine fashion, very similar to how John wore his. John Watson; Sherlock knew in an instant that this man was the army doctor to his other person. He looked around for a moment, eyes finally settling on Sherlock.

"Ah, so you two decided to go through with it anyway," he said, giving a sigh of defeat. Dr. Watson stepped further into the room, nodding in acknowledgment to the obviously confused detective.

"I'm sorry, I did try to tell them not to interfere this way. But _he_ insists on the necessity of it." He motioned to The Doctor, who smiled proudly.

"And _he_, well...you surely understand, given the um, well, given the circumstance of things, why he agreed." Watson chuckled, before shaking his head. The three men had gone to arguing amongst themselves, Watson admonishing them for their behavior, The Doctor and Holmes both presenting their reasons for doing so. They completely forgot the 21st century man across the room. Sherlock decided to do get up and do what he did best, investigate. He wandered throughout the flat, in search of answers to his growing pile of questions.

He first walked down the hall, heading toward the room that _would_ be his, were he at home. However, it was becoming quite clear to him that he wasn't in his version of 221B. He entered the room, finding that, in place of his king size bed and simple lamp, there was a chaotic mess of papers, files, books, and glass beakers. All were strewn across the long tables placed strategically in the middle of the room. Sherlock immediately saw the advantages to their layout, allowing access to any given angle of the items scattered on the table tops. The detective eyed a newspaper amongst the collected stacks, and he fished it from its pile. Looking at the date was the first of his priorities. Sherlock glanced to the top, his head feeling immediately faint at the printed text.

"October 27, 1895..." he muttered, his voice laced with an obvious air of bewilderment. He looked around the room again, this time noticing a large blue door in the corner. Sherlock walked toward it, reading the white placard that sat embedded in the dark wood.

**PULL TO OPEN**

Those, ironically, were the words that stuck out to him the most. He decided that the added questions of what a Police Box door was doing in a London flat...in 1895, was too much to handle at the moment. 'Pull to Open,' the instructions read, so Sherlock did.

Nothing. Not even a little budge. Sherlock scowled as he tried again, this time slapping his hand against the door when it refused to give. A strange feeling crept over him, and, as if it were teasing him, the door slowly creaked open. The detective's jaw set into a jutted frown, before he walked into the next room.

It was a mess. Wires streamed down from the ceiling, toggles and switches scattered about a center console. Sherlock paused, realizing that _this _room was just as out of place with the assumed time period as he was. A brief thought crossed his mind.

'_Perhaps it_'_s some sort of holographic technique...'_ he wondered. No. The building evidence was too much to overlook with a simple parlor trick. Determined to discover what he was doing here, Sherlock set about discovering the large room. He looked over the main grid, trying to decipher the purpose of each button, lever, and crank. As he rounded the circular epicenter, something pulled his attention immediately away from its prior thoughts. There, stuck between the small seam of a random keyboard and a long line of levers, was a photo. It didn't appear very old, despite the slight tearing around one of the edges. Sherlock pulled the small portrait from its place, his eyes widening yet again. Her smile seemed brighter than he'd ever seen it before, eyes shining with effervescent happiness and charm. A furrow set to his brow as a new and dreadfully deep question set to his mind.

_Just what had his pathologist got herself mixed up in?_

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Well, tralalalala. There's another chapter down. I'm going to try get as much of this story pumped out in the next...oh gosh...2 days...as I can. I'm participating in NANOWRIMO...so I will be mildly absent from my usual fanfic writing for the month of November. Anyway, I promise I will bring you as much of this story as I can in the next 48 hours, so you aren't left hanging too much. A huge thanks to MizJoely for looking over this chapter for me, and thank you to all of you for leaving such wonderful reviews. I hope you continue to do so. Leave me your thoughts, questions, advice, predictions, all of it! Righto, until next time...LATERS!


	3. Chapter 3

So, long time – no see, eh? Lol, just wanted to post a quick thank you to all of you who are still interested in reading this story. I thank you for your patience whilst I attempted NaNoWriMo for the first time, and now... SOME MORE WHOLOCKLOCK!

**BTW...I don't own anything, Not the Who, not the Lock...and not the second Lock either. I own nothing.**

((Hope it's worth the wait, my dear SammyKatz. Love ya!))

**Chapter 3:**

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As Sherlock stared down at the small picture of Molly Hooper, the sound of approaching footsteps could be heard. The voices of the three men sounded closer and closer, though he hardly paid them any mind.

"Here he is! I told you he'd figure it out. Of course, the TARDIS could have helped him. She is a bit of a flirt," the Doctor said, a mischievous smirk hinting on his lips. He then saw the shocked look on the man's face, and quickly followed the trail from his face and down his arm, until his sights landed on the wallet-sized photo in his hand. He stepped over to join Sherlock, a fond smile suddenly gracing his face.

"That was the last time. I took her to a little cafe' in Paris. 1800. She loved the New Year, and insisted I take a photo of her to mark the occasion." The Doctor's smile grew as he shared the memory, and his face looked up to see a mildly angry expression adorned on Sherlock's.

"What? It was her idea," the Doctor said defensively. He soon realized that Sherlock's expression was anger, but the emotion was based entirely on confusion. He stepped closer, placing a firm hand on the detective's shoulder.

"I'm a Time Lord. I can travel through time and space. I know your Molly Hooper, she's one of the better companions I've spent time with. This is my TARDIS, and this is how you've come to 1895, in a different universe, of course," he said, a silly grin punctuating his sentence. Sherlock was silent, resolving to look across the room to his other self instead of the man immediately next to him.

"This universe is incomplete, in the fact that I do not have the luxury of a pathologist," Holmes explained. Before Sherlock could ask his question, the other man standing beside his counterpart seemed to answer it.

"I occasionally do the post-mortem inspections, but Scotland Yard has decided that my 'preliminary findings' need review," Watson said, a bitter tinge in his voice.

"Well, that is what happens when you pronounce a man dead, who later returns to life," Holmes argued subtly. The response from Watson was a glare, followed by a heavy sigh.

"Anyway, the point of this is that _you_ have, at your disposal, quite the commodity in Miss Hooper." He continued on. Sherlock eyed them all warily, before he answered.

"Yes... yes I'm aware. Molly's skills and accuracy are highly envied throughout the whole of London, and several other countries. This isn't exactly news to me, gentlemen." Sherlock stopped, his eyes full of awaiting expectation. The three looked at each other, each sharing a different expression. Finally, the Doctor spoke, his voice quieter than before, and filled with a slightly angry conviction.

"Then _why_, might I ask, do you insist on continually berating and belittling her? She's nothing but helpful, and yet you criticize her, both on a professional and personal level. In short, you make my Molly cry too much, and I'm going to put a stop to it." Sherlock felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, the sentimental title stirring something terribly possessive within him.

"_Your_ Molly? Forgive me, Doctor, if I don't quite believe you. Molly's never mentioned you, and even if she had; why are you only now making your existence known?" He quipped, the fierce tone clear in his words. The Doctor stood back a bit, his arms crossing over his chest, and his lips curling into a pleased grin.

"Take it as a sign of her loyalty then. The last time I saw her, I asked that she keep me a secret. Apparently, her reliability is quite good!" He responded happily. This only provoked the jealousy in Sherlock more, his ego clearly being bruised at the thought of sharing _his_ pathologist.

"Yes, she's very consistent. That doesn't tell me why I'm here though. Nor does it tell me why you have a photo of Molly Hooper, in this room, or how I got here in the first place. I'm only on the assumption that _here_ is even real, considering I barely know where _here_ is." The irritated detective practically spat out the words, wanting his annoyance to be made clear. Holmes let out a quick laugh, before an amused grin settled on his features. The Doctor sighed, holding up his hands in mock surrender.

"All will be explained, in due time," he said, pausing just long enough to give the impression that it was, of course, in _his_ due time. "I will tell you how you got here, that seems the easiest one to start with. This 'room', as you call it, isn't just a room. This is the TARDIS." The Doctor motioned around himself, his arms swinging with a grand gesture. He turned around, face bright with glee. His expression dropped when it was met with a vacant stare.

"Your what?" Sherlock didn't seem too impressed, though he was slightly curious. The Doctor let out a huff, before he dramatically stomped over to the detective.

"TARDIS. Time and Relative Dimension in Space. She's a space ship! Not just some other room in this flat," he said, again waiting for some great reaction from the human. He was again disappointed, when Sherlock merely nodded, before he sighed indifferently.

"It's how you got here. To 1895 London. The TARDIS travels through time..." the Doctor continued to explain, before the witty man picked up in his stead.

"...and space, apparently. Fine, I'll accept that as a plausible reason for how I suddenly find myself in this situation. That doesn't explain any of my other questions. Why have you brought me here? What good will talking to this other version of myself do, if he has no knowledge on the apparent subject at hand, which is my pathologist?" Sherlock genuinely had no clue what he was about to get himself into, but the sudden frown on the Doctor's face told him it wasn't something he should be arguing so freely.

"Fine. I don't like to give away my plans, because they can always change. But, since you asked _so nicely_," he muttered with a sneer, "I'll tell you. You're here, in 1895, because this is where I am the moment one Molly Hooper calls me to come and rescue her. The man standing opposite you, Mr. Holmes, has more insight into the matter than you would think, considering this is the first place I bring Molly after picking her up, and before you go asking me to take you back so you can assist her, I'll tell you. She's phoning me to get away from _you_." Sherlock's several questions were all cut off at the point, before the final punch was delivered. His stomach fell to his feet with the statement, and he wasn't entirely sure he was breathing.

"B-but, why would she want to... why would she leave?" He asked, his voice barely finding the power to ask. The Doctor let out a long sigh, shaking his head as if there were some tragic tale he was about to unfurl.

"Because, Sherlock, you told her to."

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And there we have it, another chapter down, several more to come. Leave me a review and tell me what you think! Questions you have, predictions, happy little smileys. ;) (like that) Anyway, thank you all so much for the support, and I will see you next chapter! Later, my little darklings!


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